


A Little Traction

by skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aggression, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, EXP and LOVE (Undertale), Gift Fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Wrestling, based on ATTL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 07:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Sans experiences the first signs of LV flaring up. Red may or may not help. Based on Nilchance's "Ain't This the Life" series.





	A Little Traction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/gifts).
  * Inspired by [ain't this the life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319578) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 



> cw: spider mention

Sans prefers digital clocks.

The analog one that Papyrus keeps in the kitchen, of a white cat like figure whose eyes and tail swing back and forth for each tock and tick was mainly bought for purely aesthetic reasons. Its noise follows Sans around, chattering at the back of his skull, nattering and prodding at something not quite awake, not quite aware.

Occasionally, he hears the voice, a suggestion beyond reason when he catches a quick glimpse of his reflection in the mirror on his way out of the shower. It bubbles to the surface, hot wires catching at his magic, invisible fingertips scraping at his self-hatred.

_Murderer_

He’s had a long time to feel for what’s happened. It beats at his temples when he slips into the kitchen for a snack, blissfully grateful that the house is empty of its usual visitors. There’s a background noise etching into the innermost part of his brain like claws on a chalkboard.

He knows what it is, but as with everything he’s used to dealing with, Sans shoves it back as far as it’ll go and dumps a few years of trauma on top of it all. It’s like trying to drown the noise of cicadas with crickets. It just doesn’t work.

As a result, Sans is wound up tighter than he usually is, and no amount of Red’s bullshit is going to fix it. Dare he even entertain it, he doesn’t think that fucking away the feeling is going to work today. It’s too keen, wrapped around his soul, pulling at the healed seams that once threatened to claim his life.

_Unjust_

Sans doesn’t realise it, but he’s been standing in the middle of the kitchen for awhile. The ticking of the clock is getting on his nerves, exacerbating his guilt of _time is running out_ for no other reason than his brain is an asshole when he’s in a foul mood.

Yeah, a foul mood. That’s what it’s gotta be.

He decides to leave the kitchen before he re-enacts some lurid gangster trope with a penchant for destroying clocks. 1/1 clocks not destroyed. Look at him. He’s on a roll already.

As the day progresses, the clock continues to haunt him like some retro nightmare from the 1950s. He proactively decides that unless he wants to confront Papyrus about the doomed wall ornament, he needs to leave the house.

That works for about as long as he thought it would. The world is too loud, too busy. Every gleaming surface screams at him, making every possible itch in his body flare up like he’s contracted some kind of disease or he’s spontaneously developed an allergy to the sun. Somewhere, he hears cicadas screaming and it’s not as soothing as he remembers it being, back when he would lay in a field and try to imitate the song on his trombone.

He beelines straight for the front door, having not made it even down the path to the street. The doorknob shows his face for a moment, he catches his eye’s reflection and-

_Guilty_

The Judge has gotta cool its jets on the whole judgement thing. He’s off the clock, it’s _him,_ and fuck knows Sans doesn’t want to think of any of the previous Judges being expelled for the exact thing they laid down the law for.

But god, isn’t it just the worst when the guilt is laid down heavy and thick, just when he was feeling at his lowest. He’s tired on top of it all, not for lack of sleeping, just… tired from everything. It’s been weighing him down steadily for close to a week now.

The wires don’t seem to connect, in retrospect. Sans drags himself upstairs, digging through his dresser drawers for his walkman. The cassettes are old and grainy, but he likes the homey quality instead of the clearer digital versions. There’s just something about the crooning lady singing love songs that soothes him. Not that he’s a romantic or anything. He’s never had a romantic bone in his body, unless Red is very good at hiding that kind of thing.

Red.

It’s been a few days since they’ve interacted, which never generally seems to be noteworthy, but whatever. Sans texted him earlier in the week to let him know that he needed some space, as though that wasn’t some beacon for ‘hey my soul’s acting up but don’t overreact’, like he assumes that’s how Red’ll take it. Let Red sort out his frustrated boners by himself.

For that reason, Sans leaves his cell phone off and under his mattress, just in case. It’s not like Red can’t simply teleport into his room, but Sans appreciates the fact that he hasn’t. He’s a little lonely lately, but Sans will deny that to the day he dies if it ever comes out.

He crawls into his closet. It’s stupid and claustrophobic and probably something he hasn’t done since he was a kid, but the throng of rumpled clothes and boxes of things he hasn’t sorted since their move to the surface is a good solid wall to hide amongst. In the dark, the Judge can’t pester him. In the dark, he’s alone with nothing but brassy instruments in his headphones and Ella Fitzgerald singing her heart out to fill in the gaps where the Judge is constantly boring into bone.

After awhile, Sans notices he isn’t as fond as he once thought. The light inflections in the lyrics and the sudden swing of trumpets start to rub his nerves sideways, sloughing off whatever relaxation he garnered from the fragile calm. He changes the batteries, thinking it might be that, but the white noise in the background seems eerily similar to a whisper in the dark from a soundless voice. It lives in his head, paying no rent and digging up wounds he’d rather leave to heal crooked.

Sans rubs at his chest, leaning against the wall in the closet when he recognises a familiar pull from the other side. There are no words spoken, just the familiar presence of an asshole who doesn’t not care enough to leave him alone when he’s feeling sour.

It makes things worse. He ignores Red, because he doesn’t want Red to think he’s affected by his presence, but Sans doesn’t want to let him think that he got away with anything.

“Keep your fucking bugs to yourself.”

Again, Sans is reminded of cicadas. God, he hates those buzzing, annoying, screaming bugs. The summertime sky is filled with them, and even now he can feel the vibrations in the air like invisible strings. Red’s laugh is half-wrought and immediately Sans knows he’s made the stupid mistake of engaging when all he wanted was to be left alone.

“Got an itch, sweetheart?” Red’s voice passes between the cheap thin door like a rumble. Sans can feel it against his back. It jitters down his spine in a way that’s not unpleasant, but in his current mood, Sans feels like everything is a bit too much. “I got some time to kill.”

Sans swallows with the veiled promise to work through his frustrations with a fuck, because he’s Pavlov’s dog and he’s been trained to ring like a bell everytime Red comes calling. Or something like that. His body is stupid and the metaphor has gotten away from him.

Blue Skies is part way over and Sans has had enough. The scatting is just too much, where it had been pleasant before. He stops the tape with a bit more force than usual, flinging the headphones to the side. It’s somehow cathartic to be rough with things, when generally he’s careful because hey, living underground with a limited amount of resources always made him care for his stuff.

He hears Red snort like the asshole he is, and Sans lies down on the floor to stare up at the ceiling. It’s got cobwebs and a spider chilling out in a newly constructed web, and Sans idly wonders if he’s met them at some point or another. His thoughts take a hard veer left, jaggedly dancing in his joints. Suddenly he’s very uncomfortable with being watched.

Sans gets up before he realises what he’s doing, a baseball bat in hand, liberated from the corner. His free hand braces on the wire shelving holding up more boxes of clothes and he ignores the white noise filling his skull like boiling water, scorching out thoughts as they leave him.

_Guilty_

_Leave me alone-_

_I just want to have some quiet-_

_Murderer_

He chokes on a breath, startled when the door opens. Seems Red’s had enough, and while it’s probably an amusing sight to see Sans poised like a monkey to crush a spider in his closet, there’s a haunted bleed in his eye lights that looks feverish and thin. Murderous intent skims too close to being acted upon, but even though the spider isn’t one from the underground, Red seems to understand the sentiment.

“What’re you doing? Get the fuck down from there.” Red doesn’t even have the gall to sound disappointed in him. Sans reclaims some clarity and drops the baseball bat, narrowly missing Red’s shoulder as Red negligibly sidesteps. For a soul-stopping moment, Sans connects one thing to the third, the second thing oddly distant and missing.

He feels the heat behind his eyes, but it’s not tears. It’s something else entirely, something he can’t put a name to. He’s only felt this way in the past few hours, really, but it’s been building up for awhile.

Sans can’t stand the thought of silence, where the Judge can prod at his insecurities until he cries uncle and it doesn’t stop. He can’t ignore the look Red gives him, brightly lit daggers for a smile, the heat of his LV shining when his eyes settle on him.

The Judge harps its choir as it usually does whenever Sans allows himself to get distracted in Red’s presence, but it’s something he can’t tune out now. He steps down from the box and recognises the way his breath has gone funny, but he glares at Red anyway. The symphony between his temples gets louder, grating and chiselling ultimatums.

That’s when Red eyes him suspiciously - well, more so than usual. Distractedly, Sans rubs at his sternum, a tell that he’s forgotten about until Red points it out.

“Soul buggin’ you?”

“That’s not it,” Sans is quick to backpedal; and for once, he’s telling the truth. “I just don’t want to deal with any high octane bullshit today.”

Red eyes him like that’s the most transparent excuse he’s heard from Sans in all the time he’s known him, but he shrugs it off anyway. Leave Sans to wallow in whatever mood he’s in, but Red knows what’s going on. He’ll keep close until Sans asks the right questions or starts frothing like a rabid animal.

It comes dangerously close to Red admitting that he’s concerned, but Sans glaring at him with no veiled spite in his eyes has his soul doing a weird thump like it does when he gets too close to highway traffic. It’s dangerous and stupid to play frogger with emotions like this, but he likes to see Sans twitch on a good day.

Not now when he’s…. Well. When he’s not at his best. Red can wait.

“Alright,” Red says quietly, keeping his hands to himself. Sans is too on edge, but Red is all for self-discovery when it doesn’t hurt the person playing ding dong ditch with their own morals. Sans’ possession is likely having a field day with him.

But hey, plausible deniability isn’t a luxury either of them are equipped with thanks to that little addition.

With that, he sidesteps out of the doorway, as though not quite trusting Sans when he’s in this position. Sans eyes him with the same level of suspicion, his soul drumming a hammering beat for every microsecond Red decides to linger. He’s in his broiling mind, playing on the razor’s edge of blanking out again and needing seclusion.

There’s an earworm of music that mingles with the mechanical ticks from downstairs. Sans knows it’s impossible, but it feels as though he can sense the kitchen clock even upstairs, where there’s several feet of carpet and concrete between them. His toes curl in his slippers, digging into the carpet. He’s agitated and it feels _wrong._

His mind blanks out again, this time for a little longer. The baseball bat feels heavy in his hand, comforting and solid, and Red’s under him. He snaps out of it long enough to hesitate, the echoing distorted voice scratching and shrieking in his head. Somewhere distant, he’s sure it’s his own brain yelling at him for what’s about to happen.

Red’s grinning up at him because he’s an asshole, but mainly because it appears that Sans is finally gotten to the point where he’s confused enough to start questioning. The two of them remain sprawled just outside of the closet door, legs akimbo insofar as Red is interested in making it out to be that Sans’ sudden throwdown was nothing to scoff at. Even though he’s literally pinned down.

He’s got complete control of the situation and Sans knows this. It’s a comfort where little else is concerned, hot pulses feeding into his marrow like something wild and unbidden. It’s only getting worse.

“You figurin’ it out, Sansy boy?” Red asks, all nonchalance behind a shark-like grin. If Sans stares at him any longer, it’ll swallow him up. He blames the way heat sinks down to his pelvis on the sole reason that Red lifts his hips a little, because again, his body is stupid. “Or do you still feel like riding this out alone?”

He’s got an inkling of what’s happening. To be honest, Sans has kind of been expecting it after seeing Red suffer through flares of his own. He just didn’t know how his newly gained LV would rear its ugly head, but the irritation, the anxiety, the random need to seclude himself…

And the sudden flashes of violence that passes through his head are like lit matches near an open gas line. Bright and quick, leaving him wondering just what had happened in the fiery aftermath. Red’s there with a jerry can, but whether or not he’s got water or gas in it is entirely up to him.

He thinks this all in a span of three seconds - three seconds too long, as Red’s grin sharpens knowingly. He gives his pelvis another test lift and Sans gives him the _‘not here, you dick’_ warning glare. Sans is shaky and if Red’s going to tease him, he needs to separate from him immediately. He’s never been sure if Red is there to help or to make things worse.

It seems that Red’s hard-pressed into being a dick, as when Sans moves to get off him, he follows suit to grab his arm. Oh, how he relishes in the way Sans’ anger flares up and he immediately shrugs him off. Sans decides it’s a better alternative to twist around and tackle him to the ground.

Sans isn’t quite sure where he was going with that.

Red gives him a dirty look, pinned from the floor. He’s only pinned until he hooks his leg around Sans’ ankle and pulls it out from under him, reversing their positions. Sans’ breath shakes and Red immediately feels it in his soul when Sans makes to grab for his wrist. Oh, it’s _this_ kind of thing, isn’t it?

Grinning ever sharper, Red seizes Sans’ arm and twists his body around in one movement. He’s rough, but not too careless that Sans will break. He’s not a _complete_ asshole, thank you very much. Sans’ breath hitches in the way it does when Red's cock is buried deep inside of him and Red growls low in his throat.

The sound travels down Sans’ spine to make residence in his pelvis. In retaliation, because he meant it when he said _not now,_ Sans grunts and flings his arm out to counterbalance Red pinning his other hand behind his back. It pinches at the magic between his sockets. In hindsight, he’s not good at this whole wrestling thing.

Still, it seems to be taking the frayed edges off his psyche. Sans huffs in effort as Red laughs, clearly enjoying himself. He struggles more, the antsy little feelings welling up to the surface again, only to be chopped away when Red thumps him against the door. His back aches, the breath gusting out of him in surprise.

Then he tries again.

He lunges for Red’s middle, not caring anymore. It makes him feel alive instead of strung out and broken. He connects with Red’s ribs, awkwardly holding onto him and pushing as Red drawls; “Aww, I didn’t know you wanted to hug it out, man.”

Sans can barely restrain the bitterness in his tone, wordless and broken. He doesn’t know what he said, but the humour drops from Red’s face in an instant. He looks kind of hurt, but then it’s gone. Sans’ guard drops, wondering just what the hell he’d said in order for that kicked puppy look to flash before his eyes, but then he’s held back once more.

Sans is kept at arms’ length and there’s some form of clarity, like the LV isn’t acting up anymore. There’s still a high pitched whine somewhere off in the middle distance, but the ticks are gone and the bugs have stopped screaming.

Then, because Red is Red and no tender moment goes on long enough without him ruining it somehow, Sans is bodily lifted into the air and manhandled over his shoulder, leaving Sans scrabbling to hold on. His legs kick, connecting with Red, who goes down like Achilles. His landing is square on Sans, who shoves at him with his sore hands, trying to knee him off. Red just scowls down at him.

“Are you always this pent up?” Red knows the answer is ‘yes’, but he likes to tease anyway.

“Get-off-” Sans gasps between words. The little skirmish doesn’t seem to have done a lot for the need to lash out, so Sans resorts to hard shoves, which Red gladly returns. “I-told-you-to-” Another flurry of pushes, and with every one that lands, Red laughs in his face.

Sans starts to pant through clenched teeth, the edge of his breaths tainted with grunts of effort. He hauls himself up and pushes Red back with surprising force, his mouth landing near Red’s shoulder. Red can feel his hot breaths ghost across his clavicle and it raises a visceral affection for him in turn. He decides to allow Sans to rough him up a bit, but only if Sans can keep Red’s hands away from him.

By the end of it, Sans is exhausted and feeling heavily bruised, finally unable to keep Red’s hands from encircling around his wrists. He curls against the movement, an affectionate stroke on the innermost side of where the collar rests, warm and buzzing like Edge is there and scorning them. Not a lot had been exchanged between the two of them, Sans’ brain too feral to put more than a few ugly sentences together and Red far too amused by the need to wrestle out the tension to be of any help.

Sans wishes he could be quiet, but there’s a lodged ache in his throat that’s threatening to claw its way out of him. His skull feels full of the noise, like it’ll start leaking from his eye sockets at any moment. He curls again, Red’s hands on him, grounding him, and he makes a vulnerable little noise. He’s pinned under Red’s body, shaking restlessly as though it’ll keep him from flying apart.

“I can’t take it today,” Sans shakily admits after a long moment of penetrating silence. It’s too open, too honest, and Red’s eyes seem to gentle with the admission. Sans avoids looking at him _(murderer)_ and instead grabs at parts of Red’s body. His clavicle, his shoulder blade, feeling the heat between his joints, the hardness of his body. Something to ground him as he lays, holding onto Red in this moment of weakness. “I just want quiet. But it won’t stop-”

Red understands, to a degree, but it’s unsettling to see someone so at odds with himself, thrown down and raw, as though Sans is afraid of what he’ll do. Sans stares past him to the ceiling, feral LV in his eyes, searching, paranoid, trying to find the source of a sound that isn’t heard anywhere than inside of his own skull.

It’s sad, but Red gives him a headbutt, because as far as comforting gestures go, it’ll have to do. Considering his intention was to bug the closet door to make sure Sans wasn’t in actual danger, he wasn’t expecting Sans to end up clinging to him for comfort. LV is a hell of a thing.

Sans makes a noise like it hurt him a lot more than it should’ve when Red’s skull knocks against his, breaths shaking. In retaliation, he squeezes Red’s clavicle through his shirt, turning his head and wanting so desperately to bite down. It wouldn’t have any intent behind it, just some frustration to ease out of his system, but Sans resists as much as he knows Red’s a kinky fucker and he’d probably be into it.

A flood of killing tension leaves him when Red’s fingers reach between the bones in his spine, tracing the ridges and pushing against the discs at the back of his neck. Sans makes a low noise in his throat when Red does that, testing how far he can push before Sans jerks against him with a weighted gasp.

“Alright,” Red relents quietly, his hands behaving again. He pulls Sans up with him, pulling him into his lap. Red lays his hands flat against Sans’ shoulder blades, circling the curves enough that Sans feels it between his legs, because despite it all, Sans’ body is stupid after all the rough handling.

“You’re an asshole,” Sans mutters, defeated.

Red can’t help but grin to himself in the dim light of Sans’ bedroom, pushing his thumbs a little more so Sans’ knees subtly lift, proof that he’s wound up about as much as Red thought he’d be.

“Yeah,” he replies, not unfondly.

**Author's Note:**

> Although the initial line where Sans said something to make Red flinch was just me being all "haha, what if Sans just said a thing and he didn't realise it, but it was enough to momentarily crush Red?" in my head... Nil and everyone picked up that it was the Judge, and I love that HC so much more than my throwaway line was meant to be. I'm so glad it piqued people's interest! I asked what would make Red flinch and Nil speculated anything to do with failing Edge, or it being Red's fault that Edge is messed up would fuck Red up, so the Judge zeroed in on that. (I'm not going to edit that in, because in Sans' POV he wouldn't know this, and also I think it would lose a bit of the narration, especially for a one shot. ♥)
> 
> * * *
> 
> hi nil thanks for letting me write this ♥♥♥♥♥


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